Taking the Edge Off
by Michelle
Summary: Clint visits Natasha during the events of IM2.


_I __wrote this for debtsandredledgers over on tumblr because she asked so nicely, and her request had the added bonus of inspiring me to sign up for kink bingo. Yay! This one fills the prompt "in public", so consider yourself warned. _

_I love new friends, so if you have a tumblr, follow me over there (sidhera dot tumblr dot com)! All of my fic, including that which has been deemed too risque for this site can be found on my tumblr or on Ao3 (another great place to read excellent fic, btw).  
_

_I'd love to hear what you think, even if you hate it!  
_

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Five minutes after Clint got permission to take the weekend off, he was booking his plane ticket to LAX; he didn't even need to think about where he was going to spend his break.

It wasn't so much that he missed her, per se (although he did), nor was it that he liked sand much better when it ended with water (also true), so much as he really needed to get the fuck out of New Mexico. The damn place was so wide open as to be suffocating, and if he was going to be stuck in this tent town for the foreseeable future, well, he deserved a fucking break.

So, Malibu it was. Well, Los Angeles, really. Even if _some people_ convinced the agency to foot the bill for a spacious rental in a pricy district, Clint couldn't really afford the same on his salary.

Natasha was there undercover, babysitting the billionaire industrialist Tony Stark, and he could tell from the tone and frequency of her texts that she was rapidly losing patience with the self-styled "Iron Man".

Secretly, Clint thought it was kind of awesome that Stark was using his vast resources for good, kind of like a real life Batman. It was something a guy like him could really appreciate. Clint had gotten into this business for presumably similar reasons as Stark; when SHIELD offered him a job, he accepted not for the steady work or the chance to see the world or the dental (though all three were certainly perks), but because he wanted to do something to make the world a better place. And, well, with his skill set, there were only so many ways that could be accomplished.

He was never going to tell Natasha any of that, though, because he liked his balls where they were, and even if he could reasonably assume that Natasha liked them where they were, too, he wasn't going to risk it.

He texted Natasha with his flight details and the shitty hotel near the airport where he was going to stay, not that he expected her to meet him at the airport or anything, but he knew he'd better give her a heads up or it was likely that he wouldn't even see her on his visit. Her administrative duties for Stark Enterprises kept her busy for at least 15 hours a day (which, more often than not, turned into 18 hours), and that didn't even take into account the regular reports he knew Fury expected. He wondered when she found the time to sleep.

Clint knew precisely how she managed to blow off steam, however. She'd replied to his itinerary with a picture of her panties, and when they'd Skyped later that evening, she slid the same pair teasingly down her hips while he watched. No, it wasn't as good as the real thing, but you did what you had to in a pinch.

Afterward, when they'd cleaned up and could breathe properly again, she'd complained about being bored, but honestly, at least she got to play nanny to a real, honest to god superhero. She should try staring at a bunch of scientists pissing around with hammers and glowing blue cubes for a change. Then maybe they could have a real discussion about boredom.

The three days until Friday were never-ending, uninterrupted exercises in tedium, though in fairness, the monotony was punctuated by increasingly risqué pictures of Natasha via text and subsequently, rather hasty trips to the men's room for him.

At last, the day arrived, and when he got dressed in civvies instead of his SHIELD uniform, it was with a veritable spring in his step. He was in such a good mood that he even took Coulson up on his unexpected offer to drive him to the airport, though it probably meant that the senior agent wanted to have a talk with him, and knowing Coulson, that talk was likely going to center around the SHIELD fraternization policy.

Letting Coulson drive him, however, meant that he didn't have to deal with insipid questions from some rookie about how he was spending his leave. Not that a rookie would believe him anyway, even had he told the truth. Most of SHIELD was of the opinion that Natasha was an ice queen, though he supposed he couldn't fault them for that, since for many of the junior agents, their experience of Natasha was limited to having their asses handed to them in sparring matches. And, really, even the people who knew her longer probably wouldn't believe the degree to which they were wrong about her, they would never believe how hot blooded she actually was, and he wondered what they would think about the picture he'd found waiting for him this morning.

Coulson, on the other hand, would certainly believe it, since he'd managed to walk in on the two of them once in Belarus. He hadn't been able to look either of them square in the eye for almost an hour. For Coulson, that was practically _months_.

Counter to expectations, however, Coulson dropped him off at the airport with nary a word, not even bothering to tell him something trite like, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do". He just waved and sped off back toward the testing facility.

Clint picked up his boarding pass and got through security earlier than he'd expected, so he had a beer to pass the time in the little bar by the gate. The IPA was local, and pretty good for that, and it had just enough alcohol to help him relax a little without clouding his brain. He mostly ignored the other patrons in the bar, opting instead to watch the game on the big screen in between texts from Natasha.

His phone buzzed, and he checked the screen, hoping that whatever she'd sent was safe for him to check in public. Still, he shielded his phone from prying eyes just in case.

_S is INSANE, _she'd written. _Save me_.

He didn't bother to hide his grin as he texted back.

_Try not to kill him. Don't want to waste time busting you out of prison_.

He'd just set his phone down to wait for a reply when his flight was announced, so he swallowed the rest of his beer, and headed for the gate. Rationally, he knew she wasn't waiting on the other end or anything like that, he knew he wouldn't see her for hours yet, if she could even get away from Malibu today, but he hurried to get on the plane anyway, as if that would make it go faster.

He was a little disappointed that she didn't text back before he had to shut his phone off, but even that couldn't put a damper on his good spirits. He hadn't seen her in what felt like ages, since before she'd headed out to California, and he could already feel the tension in his shoulders start to ease.

Clint fell asleep before the plane even taxied and managed to stay asleep for the duration of the flight, coming awake only when they landed in Los Angeles. His ability to sleep anywhere at any time was one of the better things he'd picked up in the military, along with his skills at bomb diffusion and an iron stomach. The latter, he'd discovered Natasha had developed as well, though under much poorer circumstances. Still, once they'd learnt of their mutual ability to eat pretty much anything, they'd made a killing hustling unsuspecting SHIELD agents. Until Coulson had put a stop to it, anyway.

When he turned his phone back on, there were three messages waiting for him, all from the red head. Two were more complaints about the Iron Ass, and the third was a street address and a time. He checked his watch. If he hurried, he could make it to the hotel and get cleaned up, though he would need to call a taxi to make it on time.

The taxi let him off a block or two from the address; he knew the place well enough to know better than to be let out curbside in anything other than a limo, and with a well placed bill, he gained easy access to the club. The music was just on the annoying side of throbbing, but he figured that after a few drinks and, with luck, a lapful of Natasha, he wouldn't mind.

This wasn't her type of place either. Natasha liked smaller venues, where you could drink quietly in the back and no one would notice. He assumed that she hadn't picked the place, or, at least, she selected it as part of her cover, so when he cast his eyes over the crowd, he looked for Natalie Rushman, model, Latinist, and PA to the rich and powerful, not Natasha Romanov, who preferred jeans and a t-shirt to stilettos and lace.

When he finally spotted her, off in a corner, a small cluster of her own crowding her space, his breath caught in the back of his throat. She was certainly a sight for sore eyes, and he hadn't realized how badly he missed her until he was actually looking at _her_ and not a digital facsimile. It didn't hurt that it looked like she was poured into the little black strapless number she was wearing, a fact that hadn't escaped the drooling gazes of her entourage. He could tell she was tired from her stance, the way she shuffled in her heels, and she certainly never would have sent such a hostile glare in the direction of one of the more eager men had she her full faculties about her. Her distraction meant that she hadn't caught sight of him though, so he allowed himself the luxury of really taking her in, staring while he pushed his way over to her, still not quite believing that she was this close to him when he'd been 800 miles away from her only that morning.

He got closer to her than he expected before her eyes landed on him, but when they did, he could see some of the exhaustion lift away, and the barest hint of a smile teased at the corners of her mouth.

Clint thought he recognized the woman nearby her as Pepper Potts, an assumption that was confirmed when Stark showed up less than a minute later, so when he approached her, it wasn't as Clint Barton, agent of SHIELD, but Clint, regular guy entranced by the hot red head in the tight dress.

"Can I get you a drink?" he asked when he finally got close, and he swore he could see Potts actually smirk. He knew precisely what kind of impression Natasha gave, particularly on a mission, and he was willing to bet that she expected him to be shot down immediately.

He was.

He shrugged it off, play acting nonchalance he didn't feel, and he wandered away to find a seat at the bar, his second of the day. This seat was more comfortable than the last, but the drinks were shockingly more expensive, but it was good a place as any to wait for Natasha to lose her companions. He kept one eye on her as she fended off various and sundry hopeful individuals, and he was gratified to see that she was doing the same, shooting him smiles when no one was looking. He had his own share of advances, a surprising number of men and women who try to start up a conversation with him, but he's never been one for small talk and he's only got eyes for one person anyway.

At long last, when it appeared that Stark and Potts were going to spend the rest of the night drinking and pretending that they weren't mooning over each other, Natasha slipped away and made a beeline for the bar, hoisting herself into the seat beside Clint and neatly crossing her legs.

"Still want to buy me that drink?" she asked, coy as ever. She had to lean in close to be heard over the racket pretending to be music, close enough that he caught a whiff of her perfume.

"Maybe you should be the one doing the buying, What's Stark paying you, anyway?"

Natasha let out a disgusted huff and signaled the bartender. "Not nearly enough."

He chuckled at that, then ordered four shots of vodka. "When do you get off?" He asked her, lacing the question with innuendo, and he was pleased when her eyes danced in reply.

"As soon as the party animal over there drops," she said, motioning toward Stark, who was now ignoring Potts in favor of his rocks glass. "Or twenty minutes. Whichever comes first."

From the way Potts was watching Stark with concern, it was going to be a near thing, but then the vodka came and Clint really doesn't give two shits about Stark drinking himself to death when Natasha was sitting this close to him in a tiny dress.

The vodka, as it turned out, wasn't the greatest, but they tossed it back quickly enough that it didn't matter, and the delicate flush that had been staining Natasha's cheeks started to make its way down her neck.

He gestured toward the crush of people writhing along to the music. "Think your boss will let you dance with me?"

Natasha raised an eyebrow at that, but she let him lead her out into the gyrating masses anyway, and if he caught a particularly satisfying look of surprise on Stark's face, well, that was just icing on the cake.

They wasted no time cozying up to each other on the dance floor, fitting together as neatly as ever, grinding against each other to the heavy bass beat. It reminded him of a lifetime ago in Germany when they'd spent the ten hours of downtime before extraction getting plastered in a club not too dissimilar from this one, then screwed each other into their dingy hotel mattress until the sun came up. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't hoping for a repeat performance.

He grabbed hold of her, settling his hands low on her waist and when he tugged her closer, she pressed her thigh against half-hard cock and looked up at him with half-hooded eyes. A dangerous glint flashed there, and she twined her arms around his neck for balance, clinging to him in the low light. Her heels weren't as tall as they usually were and their height difference is more pronounced, especially now that they've gotten really up close and personal. His pulse raced as he used his advantage to peek down the top of her dress, and fuck, he wished they weren't out in the middle of a crowded club right now because it had been a really fucking long time since he'd had anything other than his palm for company.

Natasha was breathing hard, too, and he could see her chest heave even as they stopped the pretense of dancing and just rubbed up against each together. The other dancers didn't seem to notice, or perhaps they just didn't care because no one stopped them even though he was clearly hard under his jeans and she had started to moan.

He leaned down a little more to her ear, speaking a little louder than normal to be heard over the din of the club. "You want to get out of here?" It wasn't sexy or coy or even particularly sophisticated, but Natasha preferred him that way, liked that he was straightforward and honest with her. It was what made them work, really, that they didn't have to hide anything from each other. After so many years of pretending to be someone else, it was a relief to have one person in the world that they didn't need to put on an act around.

She glanced over his shoulder to look for Stark and Potts. "I think they've forgotten I'm even here," she said, then bit her lip to stifle a moan as the hand he had on the small of her back dipped lower.

"You like that, don't you?" He asked, running the tips of his fingers along the swell of her ass, squeezing the flesh firmly.

She nodded and scooted a little closer, one of her legs in between his now and the hem of her dress riding up with her efforts. She raked her hands up and down his arms, then across his chest, scraping enticingly over his nipples, and whereas before he had been thinking about how they were going to make it back to his hotel, now he was just running through all the places in this club that he could fuck her without getting arrested.

She pinched his nipples between her index and middle fingers on the way down his stomach, resting her hands at his waist. She held his gaze unflinchingly as she licked her lips, and then, without warning, she turned and walked away, using her grip on his belt to tug him after her. She led him quickly toward the back of the club to a free booth in one of the darker corners, shooting daggers at another couple who'd thought to claim the space, and when she slid behind the circular table, she bent over a little more than necessary, giving him a glimpse of her upper thighs and the lacy scrap of her panties.

"You _have_ been bored," he said as he slid in next to her, immediately dropping his hand below the level of the table to her thigh. This wasn't her usual modus operandi, she liked a much more private setting for getting down to business, but when the stress really got to her, he knew, she tended to get a little wild.

She licked her lips, looking wicked and very aroused, and then she spread her legs a little wider, encouraging him on.

"Everything is boring when you aren't around," she said, leaning close to his ear, and maybe it wasn't quite a declaration of eternal love, but hell, he'd take it.

His hand was stroking her inner thigh and working its way to her center when a waitress came by asking for drink orders. They waved her off, Natasha telling her that they just needed a quiet place to sit before heading back out on the floor, and the young woman continued on her way none the wiser.

He skimmed his hand upward, his eyes trained on the flush coloring her face, and when he brushed one tentative finger against her panties, her mouth fell open and she gasped.

"Yes, please," she groaned, thrusting her pussy closer to him, and fuck it all if she hadn't drenched the thin fabric. He could feel the heat of her sex through cotton, and he swirled his fingers once, twice around her clit, watching her shudder at his ministrations.

The redness he'd noticed earlier had made its way down her chest, disappearing into the top of her dress, and he knew that if he were to strip her bare, her chest would be scarlet, right down to the tips of the breasts he loved so much. He wanted nothing more at this moment than to say fuck it to everything and just throw her on the table and plunge inside of her, but that would surely ruin her cover and end his vacation. So, because he couldn't put his dick in her just yet, he slid the fabric of her panties aside and plunged his two fingers inside of her slick heat, keeping steady pressure on her clit with his thumb.

She drooped a little in her seat then, gripping tightly on the arm working her pussy to keep herself upright, and he started to feel the little tremors that signaled her release pulsing around his fingers.

Her eyes were glazed over, unfocused as she stared out over the crowded club, watching all the people on the dance floor oblivious to the fact that Clint was finger fucking her under the table.

"Are you watching them?" he asked, knowing it would only turn her on more.

She nodded, thrusting her hips against his hand, and breathed out, "Yes."

"Anyone could look over and notice you at any time," he pointed out, his voice with arousal. "That's what's making you so wet, isn't it? That they're watching?"

She actually whimpered as he spoke, so he kept going.

"Do you want them to catch us? Do you want them to see you with my hand inside your cunt?" She started to clench around him then, and one of hands flew upward to grip the edge of the table for balance.

He leaned in even closer then, breathed in her ear and pumped his fingers harder. "I want to watch you come in front of all these people, Natasha. I want to feel your pussy clench around my fingers like it does when I'm fucking you."

Her breath hitched, and she started to flutter, exquisitely close to the edge of abandon. He bit her earlobe lightly, then whispered. "I want you to imagine me bending you over this table and fucking you from behind while everyone out there watches. Stark and Potts, too, everyone in this place with their eyes on you as you slide up and down on my cock, moaning just like you are right now."

He twisted his fingers inside of her, used the heel of palm to rub her clit now, and she was keening in the back of her throat even as she kept her eyes focused on the people dancing far out in front of her.

"Come for me, Natasha," he commanded, and then because he knew what she really wanted him to say, he added, "Come for these people." She cried out as she plunged over the edge, bucking wildly against his hand and pressing her face onto the surface of the table.

When she was herself again, she looked back up, then used both her hands to pull his face down and kiss him like he was the air she breathed.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely carrying over the music. With her forehead pressed against his, she said, "I needed that."

He laughed low in his chest, appreciating her response. "I might have gotten that impression."

She nuzzled his throat, reaching down to brush her fingers across his still painfully erect cock, but he stopped her with a firm grip.

"Not here, Nat." It about killed him to say it, but he didn't want to risk staining the front of his pants when he still had to walk out of this club sometime tonight.

She looked up at him and pouted a little, but backed off, changing the subject to safer topics. "How'd you get here, anyway?" She asked and she pulled her dress back down over her hips as if nothing had happened. He often envied her ability to flit from one thing to the next, seemingly unaffected, though it pained him if he thought too long about how she'd acquired said ability.

"Taxi."

"In LA?" she asked with derision. "Do they even have those?"

Clint resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at her. "Not all of us can be so honored as to have personal access to the Stark Industries car pool."

She smirked at him and tossed her hair. "It does have its perks."

He reached out then, letting a strand of it slip through his fingers. "I like this, by the way. It's gotten long."

"Hair does that," she joked, deadpan.

"Good to know," he quipped back, then started to slide out of the booth. "What say we make a run for it?"

Before she stood up, Natasha brushed her hands quickly down her dress, making sure everything was in place. She scanned the crowd when she made it out of the booth, and not seeing Stark, she nodded. "Yes, let's."

She led the way, the always enticing sway of her hips exacerbated by her heels, and she twined his arm in his as they left the club and walked across the street to a little parking garage. If pressed, she would say that it was just in case someone saw them, recognized her, but he knew it would only be a half truth.

When they found the (incredibly expensive) car she'd borrowed, she produced a key fob from some unknown place on her person and after disengaging the door locks, she handed it over to him.

"You're driving, hot shot," she said, walking around to the passenger side of the car.

"Me? Are you sure?" He asked, knowing how much she liked to drive, and, frankly, surprised that she would let him drive one of the Stark company cars.

She raked a predatory gaze up and down his body, raising one neatly shaped eyebrow as if he'd said something particularly idiotic. "I can't very well suck your cock and drive at the same time, Barton," she said and slid into the car.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

It was going to be a great weekend.


End file.
